


when he tastes like home

by ChronicTonsillitis



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Hate Sex, Healing, Kinda, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, but like.... way later, look they love each other don't @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicTonsillitis/pseuds/ChronicTonsillitis
Summary: “You know me. I’m still who I’ve always been.”“Oh, are you now?” Bellamy’s lips curl into a pointed grin. Clarke’s heart stutters as he steps even closer, his fingers reaching up to graze a blond curl where it falls against her cheek. His voice is low and smooth, the words sliding over her skin like silk. “I see.Princess,then.”Clarke’s throat goes dry, her eyes flickering between his. She doesn’t— understand this. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, heart hammering behind her ribs. The sun setting on the horizon behind them frames the edges of Bellamy’s hair in warm light, circling his head like a halo, or hellfire.****Lexa didn't die, and Clarke never came home. Sending her to negotiate with Bellamy is a recipe for disaster.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 328





	when he tastes like home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [safeandsound13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/gifts).



He sends someone to meet her party at the gate, the welcome cold and quiet in the pale light of the early morning.

It’s been almost four years since Clarke has been back to the dropship, almost a year since she’s last seen Bellamy. More, since they’ve spoken.

The settlement has grown, becoming almost unrecognizable in her absence. The gates are tall and wide, reinforced with metal salvaged from nearby ruins. There are real buildings now instead of the tents they’d used before, neat rows of well built cabins arranged concentrically around the original dropship.

Clarke dismounts just inside the gates, handing off her horse’s reins to the valet Lexa insisted accompany her personally, as a symbol of her status. She steps forward towards the boy sent to meet them and eyes him speculatively. He’s not someone she recognizes, not one of the original delinquents. A strategic move on Bellamy’s part, she’s sure.

“Weron em?” Clarke asks, her face impassive. _Where is he?_ That’s fine, she thinks. She has a strategy of her own.

The boy is unmoved by her use of Trig, simply crossing his hands behind his back. “This way,” he says, nodding towards the center of the encampment. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Fine.” Clarke looks back at her valet. “Ste raun hir.” 

She doesn’t wait for the boy to lead her, starting towards the dropship on her own, her throng of appointed Coalition advisors at her back. Clarke knows the way like the back of her hand. She looks around as she goes, cataloguing the changes, searching for familiar faces, but there are few people out of their cabins. 

She wonders if that is strategic as well.

He’s waiting for them at the dropship doors, arms crossed over his chest. He’s flanked by his own set of advisors, a mix of old and new faces, none of them the usual suspects. He doesn’t want her to get too comfortable, to feel too at ease. He doesn’t want her to think she’s still one of them.

The line of his mouth is harsh, his eyes holding no warmth, not even a glimmer of recognition. Like they are strangers. “Wanheda.”

She can play that game just as well.

“Chancellor Blake.”

****

The negotiations are tense, a cold war going on between the two leaders that none of their advisors seem to notice. They sit on their respective sides of the table, shoulders stiff, chins high, and let the others do most of the talking, only interjecting when necessary.

If his plan is indeed to make her uncomfortable, he’s doing an excellent job of it. She hates the whole thing, more than any summit she’s ever taken part in. It goes on for hours, and by the end of the day they’re nowhere near finished.

Clarke slips away on her own after negotiations break for dinner, escaping the suffocating eye of her unwanted valet. She circles the walls surrounding the camp, not quite realizing where her feet are taking her until she’s there. The graveyard looks much the same as it had when she’d left, only a few extra crosses dotting the ground. Bellamy takes good care of his people, she notes. Of course he does.

Clarke kneels in front of a cross she remembers tying together with her own hands.

“Hi,” she whispers, eyes falling shut. Her fingers spread, palm pressing against the cold earth. “I miss you.”

There’s no response, of course, not that she expected one. Clarke doesn’t believe in ghosts, at least not the physical kind. 

Her eyes open again, tracing the name carved into the wood, and her forehead wrinkles. Where the cross has turned green with age, moss and lichen climbing up the outer bark, the letters on it are fresh and clean, like someone’s recently touched it up.

Her hand comes up, thumb smoothing over the deep gouges. _Wells Jaha._

Clarke blinks back a tear, sitting back on her feet. “I’m sorry,” she says, and stands. As she takes her first step away, her eyes catch on something in the corner of her eye. Movement.

She watches a familiar set of shoulders emerge through a gap in the back wall, a familiar head of dark curls slipping silently in the woods.

Clarke doesn’t mean to follow him, really. She just— does.

His walk is quiet, his footsteps soft and sure, but Clarke is better. She shadows him silently, keeping just out of his sight as they weave deeper into the forest, until the sounds of the camp fade into trees behind them.

She can’t tell where he’s going, her surroundings unfamiliar after so many years away. Not towards TonDC, he’s moving in the wrong direction. Not the bunker or Lincoln’s cave either.

Her heart leaps as he shoulders through a particularly dense patch of bushes, disappearing from view. Clarke flits forward on light feet, rushing forward so as not to lose him, but when she peeks through the foliage, he’s gone. 

Her stomach flips, and she steps out of the tree-line onto a empty ledge bathed in the light of the setting sun. Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. He’s just—gone, nowhere to be found.

“Wanheda.”

Clarke nearly leaps out of her skin, spinning back around the way she came. And there he is, leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. His lips are drawn tightly together, eyes stony. It’s clear from the distaste in his expression that he’s no longer pretending not to know her.

“Bellamy,” she breathes, still reeling from surprise. “You’re still calling me that.”

“What else would I call you?” His nose wrinkles, mouth turning. His tone is acidic, far from the carefully stoic affectation he’s been putting forward all day. For the first time in a long time, she starts to see _him_. Bellamy Blake, as she knew him. “Griffin? Klark kom Heda, maybe?”

She bristles, chin jerking in indignation. “I don’t _belong_ to her.”

She doesn't, not even in the way he's implying. She and Lexa aren't even together anymore, not that it's any of Bellamy's business. They haven't been for a long time.

Bellamy lets out a harsh laugh. “Don’t you?” He pushes off the tree and circles her, his gaze heated. Clarke glares right back, following him step for step. “The Commander’s very own Wanheda, here to make peace whether we like it or not.”

“Well that’s what I do, isn’t it?” She asks, angrily. They come to a stop, their positions reversed. “That’s what I’ve always done.”

“Oh, trust me.” He’s mocking her, smirking meanly, and she clenches her fists at her sides. “I’m well aware of what you’ve done.”

“I’m not your enemy, Bellamy! I care about you, I care about our people. I wouldn’t have done all the things—”

“Please,” he laughs cruelly, cutting her off. “Don’t act like you did it for us. The Commander said jump, and you said how high, just like you always do. Marching out into battle like the good little figurehead you are, never mind whoever gets in the way. Tell me, if these negotiations don’t work out the way she told you, what will you do? Will you wipe us out the way you wiped out Azgeda?”

Clarke reels back as if he’s slapped her, an old wound aching deep in her chest. Her eyes sting, and she shakes her head furiously. “You know it’s not the same. Azgeda threatened the Coalition, threatened our people. There would have been a war—”

“ _Our_ people?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow, his lips twisted in an ugly grimace. “We haven’t shared a people in a long time, Wanheda.”

“Don’t call me that,” she spits, lifting her nose. 

“Why not?” Bellamy shrugs dismissively. “It’s who you are.”

“ _Not to you,_ ” Clarke cries, her words breaking with frustration. She presses a finger into his chest, eyes hot on his face. “You know me. I’m still who I’ve always been.”

“Oh, are you now?” Bellamy’s lips curl into a pointed grin. Clarke’s heart stutters as he steps even closer, his fingers reaching up to graze a blond curl where it falls against her cheek. His voice is low and smooth, the words sliding over her skin like silk. “I see. _Princess_ , then.”

Clarke’s throat goes dry, her eyes flickering between his. She doesn’t— understand this. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, heart hammering behind her ribs. The sun setting on the horizon behind them frames the edges of Bellamy’s hair in warm light, circling his head like a halo, or hellfire.

His hand moves to cup her jaw, and his thumb taps light against her mouth. 

“Bellamy,” she whispers, lips brushing against the digit. Her eyes go wide, searching his expression for answers, for— _something_ that explains what is happening. He takes another half step forward and Clarke tries to step back, but there’s nowhere to go, her heel hitting the tree behind her. She steadies herself, watching the tick of Bellamy’s throat.

“Shut up,” Bellamy replies, but his voice is empty of malice, dark eyes locked on the pout of her lips. His other hand slips around her back, circling her waist.

_Is this— could he—?_

Clarke feels something almost like understanding bloom hot and low in her belly, a heat that spreads through her body like a wildfire. She rolls back her shoulders and lifts her chin, looking him dead in the face, a dare in her eyes. “Make me.”

Bellamy practically growls, his body slamming up against hers, pressing her back into the rough bark of the tree. His fingers fist in the hair at her nape and pull, tilting her face up towards his own. His forehead comes to rest against hers, and Clarke closes her eyes shut tight, panting into the space between them.

“C’mon, princess,” he cajoles, his tone sweet and low. He runs a finger over the curve of her cheek, tracing her features, dancing lightly over her lips. “Tell me what you want.”

“Shut up,” Clarke breathes, and closes the space between them.

Their mouths clash together like a storm or a battle, and after all the fights she’s been through, Clarke would know. It’s not sweet or nice or clean, it’s dirty and harsh, both pouring all their anger and frustration into the other through their lips. It’s mean, cruel, and it’s exactly what it needs to be.

Her teeth sink into his lower lip, tugging hard. His hand cups the back of her skull, pressing her face closer to his, holding her to him as he licks into her mouth.

He’s everywhere at once, all her senses swallowed up by the sensation of _Bellamy_. It’s overwhelming, delicious, intense. She’s thought of him like this before, but only in the briefest of moments, a fantasy she crushed before it had a chance to take root. If she’d let herself get caught up in it, it would’ve ruined her, Clarke knows.

It’s ruining her now.

Bellamy grinds his hips against her, pressing her into the tree as his lips slide away from her mouth, sucking and biting at the thin skin of her throat. Her fingers slide into his messy curls, wrenching his head away from her by the hair.

“No marks,” Clarke warns, her face red. She can’t come back to the second day of negotiations with his bruises on her throat. 

Not even if she wants to.

Bellamy makes a noise of assent and she releases him, her hand falling to his shoulders. He immediately ducks his head to nip playfully at her neck once more, laughing at her outraged huff.

Before she can complain again he wraps an arm around her waist and hikes her up against the tree till her feet are barely touching the ground, pressing his thigh between her legs. Clarke’s protests cut off abruptly, her arms winding around his neck.

The pressure on her center is intoxicating, impossible to avoid. Her mind is cloudy, all thoughts of anything other than Bellamy, here, now, fading into the distance like background noise. Her lips desperately seek his again, her hips grinding down shamelessly on his strong thigh. 

One of his hands slips under her shirt, pressing against her bare skin. His warm touch on her belly makes her shiver against him, her skin tightening reflexively. His hand continues up, skating up her sides, and skimming over her ribs until his palm finds the curve of her breast. 

Bellamy cups her tit, testing its weight. He slides his knee a little higher, pressing hard at the seam of her pants. Clarke feels heat growing between her legs, feels her arousal start to dampen the cloth between them.

“You should never have fucking left,” he growls into her mouth, rolling her nipple between his fingers. Clarke gasps. 

Her head falls back, fingers gripping at his hair for purchase. “Please,” she begs, not knowing what exactly it is she’s asking for. “Fuck, please.”

Bellamy seems to know anyway. He lowers her to the ground, the pressure on her clit letting up just long enough for her to make a small noise of complaint, then he’s fumbling with the button of her pants. He doesn’t bother to push them down, his fingers just sliding right between the fabric and her skin, finding the wet heat of her cunt. 

He sinks two thick fingers into her immediately, the rough skin of his palm grinding down against her clit as his hand cups her mound. 

“So wet for me, princess,” Bellamy groans, his mouth on her throat once more. She’s forgotten why that was a bad thing. It doesn’t feel like a bad thing, not at all, his mouth hot and wet and _perfect_ on the sensitive skin.

“Shut up,” Clarke says, her eyes clenched shut tight. “Shut up.”

He laughs against her neck, the sound low and rumbling, echoing through Clarke’s chest where she’s pressed flushed against him. His fingers started to pump in and out of her cunt, fucking her open. 

It’s been so long since anyone has touched like this, Clarke is overwhelmed, almost rabid. Her hips buck wildly against him, seeking out the stretch, the pressure, the friction. She feels the length of his cock pressing hard against her hip and shudders, imagining what it would feel like inside her.

She pushes him away abruptly.

Bellamy tears his hands off her, eyes wide and stricken, but she tugs him back in by the belt loops. Her hand presses against the hard bulge between his legs, palming his cock through his pants. 

“Fuck,” he bites out, gritting his teeth. His hips jump against her hand. “If you don’t want—”

“I do,” she assures him.

Bellamy growls, one hand shooting out to press her back against the tree by the hollow of her throat. His other hand flicks open his pants and pulls his cock out, letting it bob free between his legs as he steps into her space, nosing at the soft skin behind her ear. 

The short glimpse of his cock is impressive enough to make Clarke gulp, her head filling with filthy thoughts, mouth filling with filthy words. It’s big, and she wants to feel it stretch her open.

Bellamy slides her pants down over her hips and lifts her, clutching her body to his so his cock presses against her bare slit, her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

He pauses, his dark eyes moving over her features, his mouth pressed into a hard line. 

“I hate you,” Bellamy says, his voice soft. It’s not an insult or a barb, just a statement of fact.

Clarke’s eyes search his face. She finds no deceit, no malice, just old scars and resignation. It’s as familiar to her as her own reflection. Clarke swallows, and nods, her arm looping around his neck. “I know.”

He nods back, and sinks his cock inside her in one stroke.

The air leaves her lungs in a harsh gasp. Clarke’s head falls back, knocking hard against the tree behind her. Her entire body shudders, muscles spasming as her cunt struggles to accommodate the foreign intrusion of his cock.

Her fingers scrabble at his hair, tugging hard. He swallows her moans with a kiss, his hips starting a slow rhythm, a smooth slide. In and out. In. Out.

“Is it—?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke nods her head frantically.

It feels— good. Unreal. 

“More,” she begs. “Please.”

He groans, pressing his face into the curve of her shoulder. Clarke lets out a juddering sigh, her eyes closing as his thrusts pick up speed.

His cock pounds into her, spreading her open and leaving her bare. Clarke tilts her pelvis to take more of him inside her, and Bellamy leans into it, pressing his pubic bone against her clit.

It’s almost too much. Her skin is almost itchy with the feeling of being wanted, of being touched. Her back arches as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her, her hard nipples pressing against his chest.

His pace is relentless, furious. All she can do is hold on and take it, so that’s what she does. Not that she wants to do anything else.

His fingers find her clit as his rhythm begins to fail, rubbing hard circles into the tender bud. She comes on his cock with a cry, her nails biting into his shoulders.

Bellamy doesn’t last much longer, the clench of her cunt around his length pulling him over right after her. His hips press deeply against hers, face tucked into Clarke’s hair as he spills hot inside her wet cunt.

He holds her up for a moment longer, their foreheads pressed together as they catch their breath. Bellamy’s eyes close, his grip on her tightening for a second before releasing. He slides his cock out of her and sets her gently down on her feet.

It’s— awkward.

They fix their clothing in silence, both turning away from the other. When Clarke looks back he’s standing with his hands behind his back, facing out over the ledge, his eyes on the horizon. She can still feel him between her thighs.

“I—” Clarke starts, and swallows the rest of her words, her heart sitting high in her throat, choking her. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He gives her a curt nod, not looking over at her. She bites her cheek, her eyes hardening. “Okay.”

If he’s not going to say anything else, there’s nothing more for her to do. Clarke squares her shoulders stiffly, lifting her chin. She can find the way back to camp herself.

“Princess,” he says gruffly, stopping her with a hand on her arm as she moves to brush past him. She doesn’t look up. “It’s not too late to come home.”

Her hand reaches up, palm closing over the one on her arm. Her eyes close and she squeezes, letting out an unsteady breath through her nose. Bellamy's hand falls away as hers does, letting her go.

When she moves to leave again, he doesn’t stop her.

****

They don’t look at each other at all the next day.

They let their advisors negotiate for them, and sign the resulting treaty with steady hands.

Clarke rides away without looking back, the treaty tucked into her pack, her head held high. Polis greets her with its familiar crowds, and Lexa with her familiar appreciation.

Clarke wonders when it all started feeling so empty.

****

It takes her all of a month to come back.

She sends no letters, no prior warning, but somehow he’s at the gate when she arrives anyway.  Clarke's racing mind shudders to a halting stop, her heart leaping at the sight of him.

Bellamy lopes up to her with long strides, taking her hand and helping her dismount. Clarke turns to face him, their fingers still laced together, and her voice dries up, doubt growing in her chest.

His hand cups her chin, his eyes searching her face for— something, she’s not quite sure what.

He finds it, apparently, his lips curling into a soft smile.

Bellamy leans down, his forehead pressing against hers. Clarke tilts her face up, eyes closing as their mouths meet in a gentle kiss. She exhales a deep sigh against his lips, and something like peace settles into her bones for the first time in years. 

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, his voice triumphant. His thumb brushes against the skin of her cheek, wiping away a single tear. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmmmmmmm. 
> 
> don't look at me i'm going to sleep
> 
> leave me a comment or a kudo  
> (If you wanna, didn't mean for that to sound like an order)


End file.
